


Well those passions read

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 10:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: “I always wanted to be there when they execute your sister. Looks like I won’t get the chance.” She swept from the courtyard after that declaration…but Ser Jaime Lannister still wants another word.Show-verse.





	Well those passions read

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from "Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Lady Sansa sweeps from the courtyard in high dudgeon, spine straight and chin elevated. Brienne swivels her neck to blink at her lady’s retreating form with concern and confusion…

…but Jaime Lannister feels nothing but pure, seething, invigorating fury.

“Jaime,” Brienne calls after him, caution and apprehension coating her tone (just as they had the previous night, when he nearly spent himself inside her, too unaccustomed to her body to recognize the warning signs as he would with his sister-).

But he pays her no heed, eyes trained on the red banner of Sansa’s hair as she proceeds down the breezeway. The rigid alignment of her posture, the imperious hauteur- he feels suddenly reminded of Cersei presiding over her “map room”, practically drunk with the sweet nectar of her own power ( _among other things…_ ).

The recollection propels his right arm forward, and he’s as astonished as she when his golden hand makes hard contact with her shoulder.

She turns on her heel to face him, cerulean eyes blazing, jaw tense and lips pursed. HIs hand still presses forcefully into the cap of her shoulder; he thinks he can hear the bone scrape against the metal, even through the thick fur trim of her cloak. She inhales sharply through her nose, and he wonders for a moment whether she’ll turn her guard on him-

-and then he recalls that her most senior, most trusted sworn shield is Brienne, and he allows his muscles to relax just a little.

“Was there something else, Ser Jaime?” She clips her consonants and narrows her eyes…but there’s a flush rising on her cheekbones, an exhilaration shimmering in her irises. He thinks for a moment of Littlefinger, wondering whether Baelish would lament his ultimate failure to turn his pupil’s exquisite face into a virgin scroll, wholly blank and placid and vacant.

He’s been silent for several moments now, and he hasn’t yet moved his golden hand from its perch. She remains in place without the slightest withdrawal, eyes singeing into his, and the air between them feels thinner and thinner with each passing instant-

“You wish to see her dead so badly?”

A peculiar half-smile curves the ends of her mouth as she takes a half-step closer. Her fingers- short, slim, quick, sure- brush the sides of his face; she’s never touched him, scarcely even  _looks_  at him, so he’s entirely unprepared to handle this bizarre behavior shift.

Her fingertips trace his cheekbones, thumbs curving over his jawline- they halt there for a moment, and her smile widens in a way that looks nearly deranged (so similar to the way Cersei smiled, when she’d instruct her hulking, reanimated “knight” to demolish an enemy by the most gruesome possible means…)-

Her voice rumbles low in her throat when she speaks at last. “You still look very much like her, you know-” her nails scrape over the portion of his face covered by his silver-and-gold beard- “-for all you’ve tried to change it.”

A part of him will always be glad to hear of his continued resemblance to his sweet sister…monster though she may be ( _but if she’s a monster, then what does that make me?_ ). A pull to the coarse hairs on his cheeks, and her eyes shine more radiant than ever- blue as Brienne’s, but brimming with a wordless challenge, the like of which he’s only seen in eyes verdant as emeralds-

“Since you’re doomed to miss her…execution…” - the word stumbles from his tongue, and he swallows hard to remove the bit of bile rising in his throat- “…will you order mine in its place?”

Her hands haven’t budged from his face; he feels them clench as she hisses a response through tight lips, her color fanning higher and brighter- “I’ve already protected you from dragonfire, Ser Jaime. You aren’t meant to perish…” A pause, and she continues: “…not here, anyway.”

Something suggestive lingers in her tone, something he can’t read, can’t interpret-  _I’ve never been the clever one, after all._  But he has little care for meaning as their bodies sweep into the empty stable, landing hard on a bale of straw.

He’d been surprised to discover his own ability to bed a woman who isn’t Cersei, when he lay with Brienne the night before. But then, that entire experience had felt so utterly  _different_ \- all gentle kisses, warm embraces, uncertain gestures, everything achingly pure and clean.

Perhaps those differences made it all possible…but that wouldn’t explain the stand of his cock in his breeches now, as Sansa Stark grinds into him, wolf claws slashing at his neck and face and shoulders, sharp teeth sinking into his wind-chapped lips.

(‘ _It’s nothing…only a cock in a cunt, no more than that-_ ’ the words his sister whispered to him the day after her wedding night, when the thought of Robert Baratheon’s body connecting with Cersei’s threatened to drive him mad…he’d heard her phantom voice in his head last night, too…and he’d felt a pang of guilt at his need to reduce that coupling so far… _Brienne wants more, Brienne **deserves** more…)_

But Lady Sansa seems perfectly willing to accept what little he can offer. All she demands of him is the pressure of his good-and-gold hands on her skin, the indentation of his teeth against her collarbone, the ability to tear her fingers through golden hair and to press her brow to a forehead directly above a pair of green eyes-

He’s barely aware of her hands lowering to unlace his breeches and shove up her skirts, and when he feels the slick of her cunt sliding over him, he gasps, biting down on her lip hard enough to make her cry out.

She lifts her hips and lowers them again, moving in a quick and pulsing rhythm- so familiar, so intoxicating…he clutches her to him, using the strength in his arms to pull himself even farther into her, feeling as though he’ll never be deep enough-

(He’d done this with Cersei, trying to bury himself inside her body, always striving to touch a part of her he’d never touched before…)

And the way her hips swerve in circular motions, her tight cunt contracting with each plunge, her nails sinking deeper and deeper, clearly desperate to draw blood-

(He thinks on what little he’s heard of her most recent marriage, of the vicious beast who brutalized her in every conceivable way…perhaps there’s a bit of vengeance to the gravity with which she responds to his thrusts, a desire to hurt, to claim, to dominate-  _you’re twenty years too late for that, sweet lady_ ).

She shudders around him, and he feels himself swelling and tightening- he’d restrained his impulses just in time the night before…but with Cersei, he’d so rarely needed to bother…and the lines of this girl’s body, the fullness of her breasts and hips, the savagery with which she scratches and tugs and presses-

He allows himself to spill into her, justifying the choice with one thought-  _I may never have the chance again. Not with her…not with anyone_.

Her small palms glide across the burrs of his short hair, and he nearly feels that he’s being mocked when she softly, sweetly, tenderly whispers her lips across his sweat-slicked brow.

But then she closes her mouth over his, her tongue combative, her teeth ready to pierce and tear and maim-  _she sees it, then…that there’s a bit of fight still left in me_.

She parts from him, bracing her hands on his chest as she seeks her footing on the hay-strewn floor of the stable. Her tongue pushes into her cheek, but her bowed lips curve into a grin as she nods her head and trills:

“Safe travels, Ser.”


End file.
